


Teachable Fucking Moments

by Philipa_Moss



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: (in case that wasn't obvious), M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-10 23:23:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philipa_Moss/pseuds/Philipa_Moss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Twat,” said Eames, out the window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teachable Fucking Moments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amélie_Mochitalia](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Am%C3%A9lie_Mochitalia).



“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck,” said Eames mildly. “Motherfucking buggering bucket of spunk.” He was looking out the warehouse window, one hand on his hip, the other still clutching the mug of tea he had been sipping for what seemed like hours.

Arthur wasn’t sure whether he could justify replying, but Ariadne apparently had no such qualms. “ _What_?” she said, looking up from her blueprints in wide-eyed shock, which Arthur thought was a stretch. She went to architecture school in Paris and she’d never heard the like?

“Twat,” said Eames, out the window. Then he was actually putting the tea down on the ground and hefting the window open. “Twat!” he bellowed into the street. “Come and do that to my fucking face you fucking cunts!” He was still smiling, but the smile looking more like the one from Barcelona than the one from Helsinki. That wasn’t good.

“ _Eames_!” said Ariadne and, all right, that one seemed justified. It seemed like Arthur would have to do something after all, which he really hated because the last time he had broken in on one of Eames’ swearing jags they had both wound up handcuffed to a radiator, and not in a good way. He got up from his desk and joined Eames by the window, where things quickly took a turn for the worse.

Below, three boys were painstakingly carving words into the sides of Eames’ beloved Aston Martin (he said it made him feel like James Bond and Arthur just smiled and nodded) while a fourth grinned up at Eames with his head cocked to one side and an answering smile on his face.

“You!” called Eames. “Yes, you, you fucking leprechaun. You fucking grunge fucking 90s refugee. Do you read?”

“Do I what?” the kid called up with a cheekiness Arthur couldn’t help but consider unwise, under the circumstances. “Do I read? Yeah I read.” He nodded over at the car. “Do you?”

Eames chuckled. “He’s asking me if I read,” he said to Arthur jovially, and Arthur smiled back and started to feel pleasantly nervous for the kid. “Yeah,” he called back down. “I can read what you’ve written on my car.” He put on his Ian McKellan voice. “‘Shite.’ Nice. ‘Arsehole.’ Even better. And here’s the cream.” He cleared his throat. “‘Cocksucker.’ Oh, bravo, bravo, truly a masterpiece.” He clapped deafeningly four or five times and then stopped. His eyes narrowed. “And?”

The kid was still smiling, but Arthur could see him standing more stiffly than he had been before. “And what?”

“And what else?” asked Eames, now sounding like an angry headmaster. Arthur wondered whether he were maybe multitasking and trying out new voices for his forgeries. The notion that Eames might still have some corner of his mind on work at this moment made Arthur want to jump him like never before. He stepped forward a foot to lean on the sill, surprised at himself.

The kid’s eyes darted between Arthur and Eames. “And what else what?”

“And what else are you and your gang going to write?” asked Eames. “What shall you delight us with next?”

The kid glanced back at his friends, but they were studiously watching the ground. He looked back up at the window. “That your boyfriend?”

“Don’t change the subject,” said Eames sternly. “All you need to know about him is that he’s the chap that’ll itemize the bits of your fingers I’ll chop off and wank over if you put one more scratch on that car.”

The kid’s jaw dropped.

“That’s right,” said Eames. “Use your imagination. Sing us a song.”

The kid swallowed valiantly and said, “We would’ve written old bugger.”

“Good,” said Eames. “What else?”

“Bollocks.”

“Tsk, tsk.”

“Cock…” He trailed off, cleared his throat, and continued. “Cock garage.”

Eames exploded with genuine laughter. “Oh, that’s good, that is. Well done, well done. You get to keep your fingers.”

Arthur became aware of the fact that he was still clutching the windowsill and allowed himself to relax a little bit. As if Eames would ever hurt someone who couldn’t defend themselves. As if Eames would hurt someone over a car. Arthur revised: As if Eames would do something from all the way up here.

Below, the kids had started to mutter back and forth. They looked as if they were about to leave and were just waiting for Eames to give them permission. Arthur smiled. Eames must have been like that himself. Maybe this was about to become a teaching moment. Maybe everything that had happened today would feature among the childhood recollections of a future master thief.

The kids glanced up, shrugged at each other, and turned to go.

“Wait one second,” called Eames in his friendliest voice. Arthur’s heart skipped a beat.

“Yeah?” The kid winked up at them—actually winked—and Arthur grimaced.

“You didn’t answer my question,” said Eames.

“Huh?”

“My question. Do you read?”

“’Course I fucking read,” said the kid.

Eames leaned so far out the window that Ariadne gasped from across the room and Arthur took involuntary hold of Eames’ arm. Eames didn’t seem to even notice. “Then read the writing on the wall, you motherfucking arsehole. One day you’re going to be pissing blood into a bag in the hospital, and you’re going to be there because the fuckups you work with double crossed you like the useless bag of shit for brains tits they so essentially are. They will have left you for dead alone in an alley like a lonely fucking shit in a dark fucking toilet and you’re going to wonder how you could be such a dunce-cap-wearing, bollock-minded prat. And after you get yourself to the sodding hospital, you’re going to want to call up your boys and go kick some fucking teeth in because you’re that fucking brassed off. Do not. Do it.” Eames breathed in and breathed out. “The only ones that matter are the ones that called you and when they couldn’t reach you they came to find you and they were there when you woke up. That means something. The rest will get you killed. Now fuck off and if there isn’t five hundred quid on my dashboard tomorrow, and I don’t care where you get it, I’m going to put you in the hospital myself and we’ll see if anyone shows up.”

The kid stood still for a moment, then turned and ran, his friends following in hot pursuit. Eames let out a contented sigh, brought himself fully back inside, stretched, picked up his tea, and, whistling, returned to his desk.

Arthur stared out the window a little longer, collecting his thoughts, then closed it and turned to find Ariadne, mouth open, staring unseeing down at her blueprints and Eames, feet up on his desk, watching Arthur carefully over his mug of tea.

“Ahem,” said Arthur.

Eames swung his feet to the floor. “Thank you,” he said, and finally, finally his voice was back to normal.

“What did I do?” said Arthur, forcing a laugh. “I just stood there.”

“You called me,” said Eames. “And, when you couldn’t reach me, you came and found me.” He smiled all the way up to his hairline.

“It was nothing,” said Arthur, trying to block out Ariadne’s staring and the beating of his own heart. “I like to know where my team is.”

Eames shook his head, still smiling, and put his feet back up on the desk. “It was something all right. It was fucking something.”

**Author's Note:**

> Because we both had a ~~bad~~ shitty week and swearing like a sailor is one acceptable solution.  
>  I was partially inspired by [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LugJd6uGJqI), largely aided by [this](http://thewvsr.com/swearingtable.htm), and buoyed along by [this](http://theoatmeal.com/comics/ptero).


End file.
